


Job Offer

by SusanMM



Category: Hogan's Heroes, James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Post-WWII, Prison, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanMM/pseuds/SusanMM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the War, Newkirk found himself in a bit of trouble.  A man named Bond -- James Bond -- offered to get him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Job Offer

**Standard fanfic disclaimer** that wouldn’t last ten seconds in a court of law:  these aren’t my characters, I’m just borrowing them for, um, typing practice.  That’s it, typing practice.  I’ll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged.  This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing.  Originally published in the fanzine   Our Favorite Things #28:  a FanQ nominee for Best Multi-Fandom Story

**Job Offer**

by Susan M. M.

_Hogan's Heroes/James Bond_

                Peter Newkirk lay on his bunk, a cigarette in his mouth, reading a week-old newspaper.  He heard the sound of stomping boots and the jingling of keys as a guard came down the corridor.  He ignored the sounds; he was an old hand at ignoring guards.  The back of his mind idly noted that there were two guards as his green eyes reread the newspaper.  There wasn't  much else to do in his cell except reread the paper, and he considered himself lucky that it was only a week old.

                "Newkirk!  On your feet."

                He looked up to see the guards standing outside his cell.  One held a pair of handcuffs.

                " 'Ere now, wot's up?" Newkirk asked.

                "Over here," one of the guards ordered.

                Disobeying meant bruises, and Newkirk had been battered and bruised enough in his life.  Sighing, he put out his cigarette.   He got off the bunk and stood before the cell door with his hands in front of him.

The guards escorted him not to the visitors' room, but to a small office, just down the hall from the warden's office.  A stranger sat behind the desk.  He was tall, muscular, good-looking, well dressed. Newkirk knew quality tailoring when he saw it, and that was clearly a bespoke suit.   

                "Undo the handcuffs, please,"  the stranger ordered. 

                One of the guards  started to protest.

                "I can handle Mr. Newkirk.  There'll be no trouble. "

                Newkirk couldn't  quite place the accent -- educated, urbane, the sort BBC liked for their newscasters -- just a hint of Scottish beneath the Oxford-cultivated tones, at a  guess.  He was the sort of bloke the birds would fall for in an instant.  Newkirk held still as the guard unlocked his handcuffs.  The toff dismissed the guards with a gesture.

                "Sit down," the stranger gestured at the chair in front of the desk.

                "Thank you, sir."  Newkirk rubbed his wrists gently, although the cuffs hadn't been on long enough to hurt.  Appearances were everything.

                The toff glanced down at a folder on the desk in front of him.  "You've been a naughty boy, Newkirk."

                "Yes, sir," Newkirk said, trying to keep his voice contrite.  A carefully faked sincerity when a long way with parole board officers....although he'd never seen anyone on the parole board wear a Savile Row suit.

                "You're also a very clever boy."  Before Newkirk could respond with a humble 'thank you, sir', the toff continued, "Fluent in German and French.  Native dialect Cockney, but capable of speaking standard English when the situation calls for it.  Pickpocket.  Safecracker.  Marksman.  Saboteur.  Decent mechanic for automobiles or aeroplanes."  He glanced down at the file.  "Also skilled at sleight of hand, impressions, and tailoring."

                "Um, I'm afraid you've got someone else's file there, sir.  I can't do 'alf those things you just said."  His Cockney accent was stronger than it had been a moment ago.

                "Really?  _So you don't speak German, or French?,"_ the toff asked in fluent German.

                "I 'eard _Deutsch_ and _Französisch_."  Newkirk took a deep breath.  "Sir, I learned a little French in school, and forgot most of it long since.  I know enough to get me face slapped by a _mademoiselle_ , no more'n that.  As for German, I picked up a few words when I was in a POW camp during the war, but that was mostly things like come here, halt, shut up.  And counting," he added ingenuously.  "I can count to fifteen in German.  _Ein, zwei, drei_ \-- "

                "Yes, I understand you did your duty to king and country in _Luftstalag_ 13."

                Newkirk shook his head.  "I spent most of the war as a prisoner."

                "As far as you and your mates were concerned, Stalag 13 might as well have had a revolving door."

                "I'm afraid I don't take your meaning, sir.  Stalag 13 was one of the toughest camps in Germany.  Never 'ad a successful escape, and 'Eaven knows we tried."

                The toff smiled.  "I heard you were very trying to the Germans ... especially Major Hochstetter."

                "Just 'oo are you ...sir?  You ain't with the parole board."

                "My name is Bond, James Bond.  I'm with MI6."  He gave Newkirk a minute to absorb that information, then continued.  "How would you like to get out of here?"

                " 'Oo would I 'ave to kill?" Newkirk asked, only half kidding.

                Bond shook his head.  "No one.  Her Majesty disapproves of unnecessary killing.  Only a very few of us in her service are licensed to kill in the line of duty, and you won't be one of those few."

                For just a second, Newkirk's green eyes started to widen, then he resumed a poker face.  "Sir, I'd do almost anything to get out of 'ere.   And it's an unfortunate fact that other people's property comes naturally to me.  But the rest of wot you said -- I'm afraid you got the wrong bloke, sir."

                "Rob said you were stubborn."

                "Rob, sir?"  Newkirk's heart leapt.  He could only think of one Rob who would know what he'd done during the war.   He didn't let his reaction -- his hope -- show in his voice or face.

                "He also said you were the most loyal soldier who'd ever served with him, though you had an occasional problem with obeying orders."  Bond took a puff on his own cigarette.  "Tell me a little bit about what you did at Stalag 13.  Rob's told me some, but I'd like to hear about it from your point of view."

                "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know what you're talking about."

                Bond smiled.  "If you can stay closed-mouthed about a classified project from years ago, then I should be able to trust you working for queen and country -- and for me."  He removed a photograph from the file and passed it over to Newkirk.  "If I have to arrange a telephone call to my brother-in-law to reassure you that this is legitimate, the long distance charges will be coming out of your paycheck."

                Newkirk took the photo.  It showed Col. Hogan in dress uniform, his arm around a beautiful brunette in a wedding gown.  Bond stood next to the bride, wearing the uniform of the Royal Navy.  "Cor, leave it to the Guv'nor to find himself a bird that pretty."

                "My sister," Bond added.

                "That's an 'orse of a different color, guv'nor.  Right-o, then."  Newkirk touched his forehead, a gesture halfway between a salute and a peasant tugging his forelock before his betters.  "At your service, sir.  And 'Er Majesty's, of course."

                Bond smiled.  If half of what his brother-in-law had told him was true, then Her Majesty's Secret Service had just acquired an Olympic class trickster and saboteur.  Heaven help the Russians.


End file.
